


A Heresy of Storm and Snow

by thelightofmorning



Series: Tales of the Aurelii [2]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Adultery, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Politics, Child Abandonment, Child Death, Child Neglect, Child Soldiers, Class Issues, Corpse Desecration, Crimes & Criminals, Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fantastic Racism, Genocide, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Torture, Imprisonment, Incompatible Mixed-Orientation Marriage (past), Misogyny, Multi, Past Rape/Non-con, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Prequel, Religious Conflict, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2020-10-18 18:11:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 16,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20643488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelightofmorning/pseuds/thelightofmorning
Summary: The Great War is over but the battle for Skyrim has only begun.Legate Primus Rikke Snow-Stone is forced to toe the Legion line because there is no other chance for Skyrim's survival. Tasked with rebuilding her homeland and accustoming her fellow Nords to the terms of the White-Gold Concordat, she faces a series of choices that make her question if her oath as a Shieldmaiden can survive the reality of politics.Sigdrifa Stormsword is exiled in her own land due to the failures of the Empire. Joining forces with Ulfric Stormcloak and his consort/huscarl Galmar Stone-Fist, she applies the teachings of the Shieldmaidens to politics, warfare and even social changes as they prepare Skyrim for the ultimate fight for survival in a world where their greatest god is now forbidden.This is not a war that will take months or even years. It will take decades. And it will be the victor who decides what is and isn't heresy.





	1. Return

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, war crimes, imprisonment, misogyny, alcohol use, classism, criminal acts, religious conflict, corpse desecration, emotional trauma, child neglect, child abuse and mentions of genocide, rape/non-con, adultery, torture, incompatible mixed-orientation marriage, child abandonment and child death. More elaboration on the new Aurelii ‘canon’. Yes, Sigdrifa is canonically sex-neutral asexual and my Ulfric is demiromantic bisexual.

“Welcome to Helgen, Legate Primus. I’m Tribune Harnbjorn Hadvarsson.”

Tribune Harnbjorn was a plain-faced man with the heavy shoulders of a labourer and the direct gaze of a veteran soldier. His accent was touched with the brogue of a Reacher and his brown hair, rosy-fair complexion and green eyes only confirmed his origins. Rikke looked past him to see soldiers pulling down the shrine of Talos, much to the protest of a sturdy blonde woman in finer garb than usual for a churl. Two boys, one who looked like Harnbjorn and the other bearing a resemblance to the woman, were already arguing on whether Talos was a god or not.

“Damn the Dominion,” Harnbjorn said softly, following her gaze. “Is there no choice?”

“Not if we want to survive until round two with them,” Rikke confirmed with a sigh.

“Ragnhild!” Harnbjorn snapped at the blonde. “Stop it or your children will be orphans!”

Ragnhild’s mouth tightened. “You deny the divinity of Talos?”

“They burned half of Bruma alive in the Great Chapel,” Rikke said flatly and loudly. “Every Blade was crucified at Cloud Ruler Temple. The Empire has no choice-“

“Half of Skyrim’s warriors died for the Empire and this is how we are repaid,” Ragnhild interrupted bitterly. “What is the use of survival if we must live like nithings?”

“You will do their sacrifice no honour if you get yourself killed painfully by the Thalmor,” Rikke retorted. “Survival is our only option at the moment, hetwoman.”

“I never thought I would say a Shieldmaiden was a coward,” Ragnhild said as she turned away. “But you embarrass yourself, your dead sisters and their memory, Rikke Snow-Stone.”

Rikke’s fists clenched as the hetwoman gathered her son and stalked out of the square.

“The Dominion wants Skyrim to fragment because we would be among their staunchest enemies,” Harnbjorn said behind her. “If Ragnhild is an example, it will succeed.”

Rikke throttled down her temper before responding. “Is there anyone who could harness such resentment for their own ambitions?”

“Not among the Jarls. Half of them came to power because their parents were killed in the Great War and the other half are too old or disliked to gain supporters.” Harnbjorn’s voice was bleak. “The main trouble will come from the hetfolk and the Thanes.”

“We can pay most of them off,” Rikke said calmly. “Who’s in charge of Whiterun?”

“Balgruuf the Greater. His father and brother were crucified at Lake Rumare by the Dominion, so he’s now Jarl when he was Steward. Got the kind of smarts we’ll need to rebuild Skyrim.”

She nodded. “We’ll start with him. Is Dengeir being difficult?”

“He’s always difficult. I never thought I’d wish those heathen Reachfolk well, but they’re keeping him occupied since his sons died at Bloodlet Throne.” Harnbjorn joined her as they began to cross the courtyard to Helgen Keep. “I’d like to know where Sigdrifa went. She always was a cold bit of work.”

“She didn’t die at Cloud Ruler. Believe me, I checked every cross,” Rikke said softly.

“Typical. The elves couldn’t do us this one favour.” Harnbjorn sighed. “We better assume she’s alive and will make trouble. Her devotion to Talos is all.”

“That’s what the High-Mother made us,” Rikke said quietly. “Whether we willed it or no.”

…

Ulfric accepted the strip of dried meat and round of flatbread from Sigdrifa as she looted the Legion soldiers. They’d come upon the patrol of three in Haemar’s Pass and as the Quaestor was demanding them to halt, Sigdrifa had cast Lightning Cloak and fallen among them. Their light armour had been no match for her totemic plate and shock-enchanted greatsword. She wasn’t the greatest warrior but in the quicksilver-ebony alloy worn almost exclusively by the Shieldmaidens, she didn’t need to be.

Skjor had left them just after they’d skirted Helgen, wearing the iron armour of a smuggler chief they’d slain in the Serpent’s Trail. The former Praetor was sickened by what had been done but refused to return to the Rift for personal reasons. That left Ulfric and Sigdrifa to flee to Windhelm, heartland of Talos worship, on their own.

He gnawed on the meat and flatbread. Since his torture at the hands of the Thalmor, he’d been always hungry. Sigdrifa said it was because his body was trying to heal and needed the energy. It reminded him of something Rikke, another Shieldmaiden he knew, said after a skirmish in County Cheydinhal.

But Rikke had been warm and personable, a true comrade in arms. Sigdrifa was coldly pragmatic with little of her internal turmoil showing. He knew she mourned her daughter in her own way and was furious at the betrayals of the Blades Grandmaster. She channelled that energy into an icy rage that boded ill for the Legion whenever she was in a position to strike back.

“My father will bow to the White-Gold Concordat,” he finally said after his meal. “Eastmarch is too reliant on Imperial grain to say otherwise.”

“That will need to be rectified,” Sigdrifa said, pocketing the last few septims. “The Old Holds have the capacity to be self-sufficient if we work at it.”

“How do you propose we do that?”

“Encourage the Rifters to get off their arses and farm more.” Sigdrifa pulled her gauntlets back on. “It won’t be months before we can strike back at the Empire and Dominion, Ulfric. It’s going to be a matter of years, perhaps even decades.”

He gave her an alarmed look. When he’d made his vow to strike back at the Empire and avenge the dead, he’d expected for it to take maybe a few years at most. But Sigdrifa was outright saying it would take decades.

“War isn’t just a matter of arms and warriors,” Sigdrifa said as they began to walk towards Ivarstead. “It’s a matter of money and politics. Talos used all to His hand when necessary and I spent as much time studying His chronicles about administration and finance as I did the tactics and strategy.”

Ulfric hadn’t considered that. “So where do we start?”

“A centre around which this rebellion – and it will be a rebellion – gathers.” Sigdrifa sighed gustily. “Once you return home, your father will want you to wed, to secure the succession. His child thought lost has returned and he is an old sick man.”

“So I start with a marriage?” he asked in disbelief.

“Yes. A marriage and outward acceptance of the White-Gold Concordat. Talos requires that we be quiet for the first few years, as he was during the reign of Culhecain.” Sigdrifa looked down at the aspen forests of the Rift. “Even Shieldmaidens aren’t immune to such things. I could have lived happily at Yngvild but the High-Mother decided otherwise.”

“You didn’t like your husband?”

“I could have lived with Rustem if he’d shown me some basic respect. Talos forged me into a weapon before I was born and so I don’t find anyone attractive in that sense.” There was bitterness on her austere features. “I did my duty. If Rustem sought other beds, he could have at least been discreet about it. But no, he committed adultery on me with another Blade, compounding his sins by stealing the lover of his own brother. I deserved better and Irkand deserved better.”

“I’m sorry,” Ulfric said quietly.

“It doesn’t matter. Rustem’s in Hammerfell and I’m back home.” She sighed. “Once I deliver you to your father, I’ll go to the hills for a few months, see if I can find any Shieldmaidens or former Shieldmaidens.”

“Stay in Windhelm,” Ulfric told her. “You know more of war and politics than I do.”

Sigdrifa gave him an opaque look. “If I stay, your father will suggest that we marry.”

Ulfric winced. “I’m… after Elenwen… I…”

The Stormsword didn’t do compassion but there was a certain kind of sympathy in her blue-green gaze. “You prefer men?”

“I, uh, there was my huscarl Galmar…” Had he even survived the Great War?

“I will go in search of Shieldmaidens and veterans like Skjor who will feel betrayed by the Empire’s failure,” Sigdrifa replied. “That may take me a year or so. They will be the core of our rebellion.”

“Our rebellion?”

“You think I was going to let an apprentice Greybeard with no political or military experience do it on his own?” she asked in disbelief. “Apart, we can do nothing. Together…”

Ulfric surprised himself with a short, bitter laugh. “You have everything planned, don’t you?”

“Not quite. I need to know what I’m working with…” Sigdrifa sighed again. “We better continue walking if we’re to reach Ivarstead by nightfall.”

For the first time since Ulfric had been captured by the Thalmor, he felt a flicker of hope.


	2. Failed Vows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, mutilation, corpse desecration, religious conflict and mentions of genocide, incestual sexual assault, torture and child death. This story is episodic to a certain degree, so don’t be surprised by timeskips.

_One Year Later…_

“Another day, another crucifixion,” remarked a Thalmor agent to his superior in Altmeris. Knowing which way the wind would blow, the High-Mother had drilled all the apprentice Shieldmaidens in the languages of the Dominion. That knowledge hadn’t saved them when the Thalmor destroyed the Yngvild complex during the first year of the Great War. To Rikke’s knowledge, only she and Sigdrifa remained of those who’d taken full vows. Astrid, the failed apprentice, was out there making trouble and no doubt others of her ilk existed. It would explain the rise of female bandit chiefs across half of Skyrim.

The senior Justicar, one Ondolemar, gave his subordinate a chiding look. “You are _not_ to take pleasure in this duty. The common human is not our enemy and every one we must execute is a failure of our duty to properly educate them.”

Rikke pretended to ignore them. Another Thane of Haafingar was being nailed to the cross by a Legionnaire, joining the row of three tattered corpses lining the road to Solitude. Dagur Many-Ships had refused to assist the Thalmor and had actively smuggled refugees to High Rock or Morrowind. He was caught and was now dying for his compassion.

“One less idiot Nord in the world improves it,” the agent said dismissively. “One less worshipper of Talos only weakens the bonds holding us to the world.”

“It has been determined that men and mer have the same kind of soul,” Ondolemar said frostily. “We are freeing _all_ mortals from the binds of the flesh.”

“And?” the agent sneered.

Ondolemar was unusual in that he preferred a weapon over the use of spellcraft, though Rikke had seen him using both at times. His right hand drew his elven dagger, enamelled black and gold in the Thalmor manner, and slashed across the agent’s eyes with such speed that she was reluctantly impressed.

“Perhaps with no eyes you will see the clearer,” Ondolemar announced as the agent clutched at his ruined face. “You should never take your position as superior to man for granted. Go to Ancano and be reassigned. I do not wish to see you ever again.”

The agent was carried off by two Altmer in the black and gold armour of the Thalmor and Ondolemar fastidiously wiped his dagger on a rag before sheathing it. Even the High-Mother couldn’t have matched his chilling serenity.

Rikke glanced away. Even a Shieldmaiden’s training couldn’t keep her expression stoic during an atrocity like that.

Dagur was nailed to the cross by now and Harnbjorn stood by with a club. “Confess that Talos is no god and we’ll make it the quicker for you,” he was urging the Thane in his soft gentle voice.

“Fuck… you…” Dagur said through gritted teeth.

Harnbjorn sighed and walked over to Rikke. Ondolemar flicked them a glance before looking back at the cross.

“This is doing nothing but building resentment,” the Tribune hissed. “Why can’t we send them to the headsman?”

“Because the Emperor has decreed anyone who refuses to accept the White-Gold Concordat is a traitor and must be punished accordingly,” Rikke responded flatly.

“The cross is, I’m sad to say, kinder than what my brethren would do to them,” Ondolemar said suddenly in Tamrielic. “Too many of my kind take undue pleasure in their work because they are caught up in the superiority of mer over men and not the duty of educating our lesser cousins.”

“You don’t even bother to hide it, do you?” Harnbjorn asked disgustedly before Rikke could motion him to silence.

“Auriel teaches that we should be honest in our intentions,” Ondolemar said quietly. “I don’t enjoy this any more than you do, Tribune.”

Rikke placed her hand on her aide’s shoulder. “What would you do if you were in charge, Ondolemar?”

“I would help establish schools and educate the populace gently. I know what racial desolation is like, Legate. My grandfather experienced it during the cruelty of Tiber Septim’s rise to power.” Ondolemar sighed. “I’m sad to say that much of the Dominion’s cruelty comes from the older generations desiring to inflict the same kind of pain upon the Empire as was inflicted upon us. They are further from the freedom of flesh than they believe.”

“What do you mean by that?” Harnbjorn asked.

“The mortal world exists because of Lorkhan’s deception of the Aedra,” was his answer. “I can only assume that the Aedra went through with it because of the ‘sunk cost fallacy’ – they had put so much of themselves into it that the truth of being deceived was too painful. Even gods are fallible.”

The Justicar sighed. “There are heretics who claim that men and mer and beastfolk have different souls, but the Conjuration school has proven otherwise; if it is sentient, it has a black soul. A black soul that was once a god. We seek to unravel Lorkhan’s deceptions for all immortal spirits trapped in the flesh, not just those of the Altmer.”

Rikke had known something of this but hearing it revealed with calm compassion made her realise just how insane the Thalmor were. “To Nords, Shor is a hero,” she pointed out.

“Of course he is. I like to believe that Shor is the aspect of Lorkhan who feels some kind of responsibility to the mortals he created, perhaps one that is even slightly shamed of what he did.” Ondolemar shrugged. “I am no theologian. I just try to do my duty as kindly as possible.”

Rikke turned towards the gates. “Let me know when he’s dead. His wife’s paid for him to have an appropriate funeral.”

Inside Castle Dour, she threw up twice. Trying to rebuild and protect Skyrim was forcing her to compromise her honour more than she realised. Would she have done better to die sword in hand, proclaiming the name of Talos?

But she was the only Legate Primus of Nord stock in the Imperial high command. Jonna was retiring this year and while there were a couple lesser Legates, none of them had the Imperial connections that she did.

Surely Talos understood. She would do His Empire no good as a corpse on a cross.

So why did she feel like she was breaking her vows every day?

…

“Astrid!”

Sigdrifa was surprised by the quality of the embrace she gave the former apprentice. Shieldmaiden training had left little time for friends but for some reason, the lithe blonde Plainswoman had left her mark on Sigdrifa. Perhaps it was the injustice of her expulsion from the order. Astrid wasn’t a virgin due to a personal failing; it was the crime of her uncle that made it so. The High-Mother had no right to remove her like she had.

“I knew those bastard goldskins wouldn’t manage to kill you,” Astrid responded with a slow smile, her voice like poisoned honey. She’d grown into a beautiful woman and in a moment of clarity, Sigdrifa realised she knew how to use that beauty as a weapon. It had never occurred to her that such a thing was possible.

“Talos has work for me yet,” Sigdrifa assured her as a lumbering silver-haired man came over, sniffing at the air. “And for you, if you want to join.”

Astrid sat down on a log and gestured to Sigdrifa to do the same. Between them burned a fire with venison on the spit. “I work for another master now. You know I went back and killed my uncle, right?”

“Good for you!” Sigdrifa said, obeying. “But… another master?”

“I was good at killing,” Astrid said with laudable humility. “Then I stole a kill from the Dark Brotherhood.”

“Ah.” Sigdrifa accepted a flagon of mead from the silver-haired man. She didn’t really drink the stuff but it would be rude not to accept. “I thought they’d all been wiped out at Bravil.”

“It was a closer thing than we liked,” Astrid admitted. “Falkreath and Sentinel are the last Sanctuaries left.”

“Can we really trust this woman with Brotherhood business?” the silver-haired man asked.

“We’re all exiles and outlaws here, Arnbjorn,” Astrid told him. “Besides, I know Sigdrifa. She kept up my training after I was expelled from the Shieldmaidens and before that, she’d done her best to keep me in there. I owe her something, love.”

Arnbjorn grunted. “She betrays us, she dies.”

“I have no intention of betraying you,” Sigdrifa assured him. “In fact, I can see some mutual benefits to us.”

She sipped cautiously from the mead. “I have a plan. It could take years, maybe even as long as two or three decades. Did you get as far in your training as the study of Talos’ conquering of High Rock?”

Astrid had never been a fool. “You’re planning a rebellion!”

“That I am. We’ve got Ulfric Stormcloak, the only son of Jarl Hoag and the first Battle-Tongue since the Oblivion Crisis. There are former Shieldmaidens and Legion veterans across Skyrim who are outraged at Mede’s signing of the White-Gold Concordat and considerably more intelligent than those idiots getting themselves crucified.” She accepted a plate of venison from Arnbjorn.

“You think almost like a Dark Sister,” Arnbjorn said approvingly. “Smarter than those idiots in the Companions.”

“I appreciate the compliment but I’m not good at taking orders after my time in the Blades,” Sigdrifa admitted ruefully.

“You weren’t much good at taking them when we were at Yngvild,” Astrid said dryly.

“That… is true.” She drew her belt-knife and speared a chunk of venison with it. For an assassin, Arnbjorn was a good cook. “I can’t promise rich jobs, not for a while, but I can promise steady work for a long while.”

“Better a septim a day than a hundred a year,” Astrid said philosophically. “I’ve just become Speaker, so I might be able to give a small discount. I may not worship Talos anymore, but to Oblivion with some fucking elves telling us how we should live and worship.”

“Amen,” Arnbjorn agreed. “So, who’s the first to die?”

She told them and, because Astrid was a friend who deserved honesty, the why of it.

She couldn’t, after all, be married when she returned to Windhelm. And Rustem owed her some bloodgeld anyway.


	3. Wedding Plans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, torture, imprisonment, rape/non-con, war crimes, child death, child soldiers, adultery and incompatible mixed-orientation marriage. I’ve implied Galmar and Ulfric’s relationship in other works, but in this one it will be more explicit, and this work will reflect certain political realities that a nation who’s just survived a terrible war may have. Hence the polyamory tags.

_Six Months Later_

“Well, Sigdrifa’s alive,” remarked Harnbjorn as he put a scroll bearing the blue-grey seal of Eastmarch on Legate Primus Rikke’s desk. “And as you predicted, I think she’s going to cause trouble.”

The tall Paler picked up the scroll and read its contents, her square jaw rippling with what was probably anger. To the best of his knowledge, Rikke had always remained true to her Shieldmaiden vows, even though she’d been forced by her service to the Empire to forswear Talos publicly. Why couldn’t the malcontents understand that if they kept their worship to themselves, Skyrim could recover and prepare for the next war with the Dominion?

_Because they’re selfish idiots, that’s why,_ he thought sourly as Rikke ran a hand through her short brown hair.

“Do we have any news on the surviving Aurelii?” she asked mildly.

“Irkand’s been assigned to High Rock because he’s run out of necromancers and vampires to kill in Cyrodiil,” reported the Penitus Oculatus agent who’d delivered the scroll to Harnbjorn two hours ago.

Rikke’s mouth twitched in amusement. “Irkand is… efficient. He had the highest kill count of Thalmor outside of battlemages, catapults and other siege weaponry during the Great War.”

“Well, he’s topped that record with the amount of necromancers and vampires he’s dealt with,” the Penitus Oculatus agent confirmed. He was a dapper Colovian with a neat beard and dark hair grown out from the Legion crop. “Even Granduncle Motierre was impressed.”

“It isn’t Irkand we need to be worried about though,” Rikke said, mouth tightening. “Rustem’s the wildcard. More so after word of _this_ gets out.”

The agent nodded. “He’s embedded himself deep into the Forebear faction of the Redguards. More to the point, he’s aligned with the independent sub-faction headed by Beroc al-Dragonstar and Safiya al-Elinhir, who are rumoured to be working with the permission of High King Sura-Mai. You _do_ know Hammerfell’s still at war with the Dominion, right?”

“Can you really fault them?” Harnbjorn pointed out tentatively. “We could have reinforced Hammerfell, at the very least. The Redguards bought the Emperor time to regroup at the Red Ring.”

“Not without jeopardising the White-Gold Concordat. Father planned to compensate the Redguards for the loss of their southern territories until we could replenish our armies within a generation or two.” The agent turned to pace from one wall to another in the office. “How goes our compensation to the Jarls, Rikke?”

“Balgruuf, Hrolfdir and Idgrod have accepted. Gytha’s wavering because Winterhold is so impoverished but if they lose their shrine to Talos, they have no clergy at all in the Hold. Dengeir, Skald and Laila Law-Giver have refused the compensation and the White-Gold Concordat but aren’t expelling Legion soldiers from their Holds.” Rikke tapped the scroll in her hand. “I think Hoag’s response is clear by this little announcement.”

The agent grimaced. “Rikke, you’re assuming I’m familiar with the finer details of Nord politics.”

“Hoag made a public submission to the White-Gold Concordat on one hand but he’s marrying his son – Skyrim’s only living Battle-Tongue with a justified hatred of the Thalmor – to the daughter of Jarl Dengeir – the last woman who could conceivably call herself a Shieldmaiden of Talos,” Rikke explained grimly. “_That_, Maro, is a union that will provide a centre for the malcontents to flock to.”

“The Thalmor had one job at Cloud Ruler and they couldn’t do it right,” Maro groused sourly. “But I’d have thought Rustem would have gladly divorced the woman. They hated each other with a passion that was almost holy in its intensity.”

“Jarl Hoag’s a conservative,” Harnbjorn told him. “A divorced Shieldmaiden wouldn’t be to his satisfaction for his son’s wife, no matter what political advantages she brought to the table.”

“Someone _did_ try to kill the Lady of Elinhir’s household last month but everyone assumed it was a Thalmor agent as the assassin was a Bosmer,” Maro mused. “You _do_ know that Rustem’s her new consort, right?”

Rikke went very still, her expression blank. Then her eyes narrowed. “Maro, you were the one who told me the new Speaker for the Falkreath Sanctuary was one Astrid, right?”

“I did,” Maro said slowly. “Blonde, beautiful, voice like honey.”

Rikke grimaced. “Of course it would be her. She’s a failed Shieldmaiden who… Well, the High-Mother was strict on the requirements of a Shieldmaiden and through no fault of her own, Astrid didn’t meet them. Sigdrifa was the only one to stand up for her.”

“The Dark Brotherhood’s aligned with the last Shieldmaiden of Talos?” Harnbjorn asked, aghast.

“More like Sigdrifa asked an old school friend to deal with her problematic husband,” Rikke said dryly. “Even the Stormsword wouldn’t go further than that, surely.”

Maro shifted. “We could send the paperwork proving she’s married to Jarl Hoag?”

“Legion couriers are falling prey to the bandits in the Old Holds,” Rikke said with a sigh. “It’s a shame we can’t dispatch Irkand to clear out that scum.”

“I’m sure there’s a necromancer or two in the Old Holds. Irkand’s been quite happy to clear out other trash for the Empire while he’s chasing corpse-raisers,” Maro suggested. “If Sigdrifa were to have an accident…”

“She knows how Irkand operates,” Rikke said with another sigh. “Dammit! I need more intelligence from the Old Holds.”

“I’ll do what I can,” Maro promised.

Harnbjorn already knew it wouldn’t be enough.

…

“There was honestly no one else I could accept as a bride.”

Ulfric wiped his palms on his breeches as Galmar sat down across from him in their private chamber. A year and half after his return to Windhelm, his Legion lover had become both huscarl and consort as he battled the demons of his imprisonment, torture and failure. His father wasn’t too happy about the arrangement, not with the succession hanging on a thread, but Hoag was more relieved to see his son alive than to make too much of a deal who he bedded down with in the interim.

Galmar poured them both some mead. “We knew it would come to this. I think that’s why Sigdrifa spent the year recruiting from the former and failed Shieldmaidens, the disaffected Legion officers and a crop of promising youngsters. Once you’re married, it will be hard for her to leave Windhelm.”

“You’re taking this better than I expected,” Ulfric answered after a hearty gulp of mead.

“I saw it coming. Sigdrifa’s the only woman who has some idea of what you’ve been through, isn’t the kind to expect more than you can give, and has much needed talent for the wars to come.” Galmar smiled crookedly. “In short, she won’t battle for your heart.”

“I wouldn’t know what to do with one if it was given to me,” Sigdrifa said as she entered the open front door. “I think that’s where Rustem and I went wrong. I mean, aside from the blatant disrespect he showed me.”

Galmar nodded to a seat. “So you truly have no problem with Ulfric and I?”

“It saves me from having to worry about his heart,” was Sigdrifa’s typically pragmatic answer as she sat.

“And they say romance is dead,” Ulfric observed sardonically, handing her a cup of water.

“If Rustem was an experience of romance, it’s better off dead,” Sigdrifa said quietly.

“Speaking of him-“

“I’ve asked a friend to deal with him. If it fails, they’ll think it’s the Dominion.” Sigdrifa sighed. “What does your father say about everything?”

“He’s not happy about me and Galmar.” Ulfric drank some more mead. “I didn’t mention Rustem. He would have forbidden the match.”

“If there was another way, I’d take it,” Sigdrifa admitted. “But resurrecting the Shieldmaidens isn’t possible; Rikke’s watching like a hawk and for whatever reason, she’s decided her oath to the Empire is more important than her oath to Talos.”

“Rikke always did what she thought was right,” Ulfric agreed sadly.

“I know. I used to admire her when we were all at Yngvild.” Sigdrifa sighed. “I hope she comes to us. I don’t want to kill another Shieldmaiden.”

“You lost the most of us all during the Great War,” Galmar agreed with a sigh of his own. “How do you keep on fighting?”

“I remember that the Thalmor not only want to destroy our god, they want to destroy Mundus itself,” she answered grimly. “I lost my sisters. I lost my daughter. I will not let them take Skyrim.”

“Then we are as one in this,” Galmar said gruffly. “I will be proud to call you sister, if you call me brother.”

Sigdrifa gave one of her rare sweet smiles. It was strange how it softened the austere, harsh features of the Stormsword’s face and made her… not beautiful, but less like an ancient statue of old. Shieldmaidens weren’t known for their sentimentality; in fact, their stoicism was almost proverbial in the Old Holds.

“Agreed,” she said softly. “Now, I’ve been hearing some interesting rumblings from Hrolfdir of the Reach. As you know, the Reachfolk under Madanach threw him out when the Legions marched south to Cyrodiil.”

“Filthy heathens,” Galmar growled. “Talos should have wiped them all out.”

“My mother was Reacher,” Sigdrifa observed. “I remember she cried and cursed my father when I was sent to the Shieldmaidens at the age of six.”

“The Reachfolk have no love for Talos. They call Him the Thief-God and claim He stole the power of Shor,” Ulfric said flatly.

“I know. I’m fairly sure my mother – or her kin – are behind the nightmares plaguing my father,” Sigdrifa said, sighing. “My father saved me from becoming a heathen witch like her. Could you imagine me serving some Hagraven?”

“Never happen,” Galmar grinned. “The Hagraven would be scared you’d take her place.”

“Well, if Hrolfdir’s right, we might be able to purge the Daedric poison from the Reach in a year or two,” Sigdrifa told him. “To be honest, I want to be wedded, bedded and birthed at least one heir for Eastmarch and preferably another for Falkreath before we go pull his fat from the fire.”

Ulfric winced. He could appreciate the necessity of it and he was glad Sigdrifa had the tough-mindedness to consider what he couldn’t logically. Galmar was a mighty frontline commander but he acknowledged Sigdrifa was his superior in tactical and strategic matters.

“We’d need two years to raise a half-decent militia,” Galmar assured her. “We got a good smith from Bruma – Oengus War-Anvil.”

Her blue-green eyes lit up. “He trained under Janus Break-the-Spear, who was smith to the Blades. He will know his work then.”

“I’m not averse to blooding my troops on the enemies of Talos, but what is in it for us?” Ulfric asked.

“We demand the right to worship Talos freely,” she said. “Hrolfdir’s fairly desperate and if the Legion is wise, they’ll look the other way.”

“And if they are not?”

Sigdrifa’s expression grew bleak. “I ask my old friend Astrid to remove their more competent officers for a reasonable fee. Dark Sister she may be, but she’s no love of the elves or the Imperials.”

Galmar frowned. “There is no honour in that.”

“The honour of a Shieldmaiden is different to that of a huscarl,” Sigdrifa told him. “To me, assassinating a competent general before a fight means less of my soldiers die.”

“What about the Thalmor?” Ulfric asked in a small voice.

Sigdrifa’s smile was grim. “I can keep them out of the Old Holds. Most of the ‘bandit clans’ out there are militia led by a former Shieldmaiden or Legion officer who have joined our side. Any Altmer, Bosmer or Khajiit stupid enough to cross them will die.”

“The caravans do bring some useful things in,” Ulfric pointed out grudgingly.

“Most of them have no love for the Dominion. I will pay a small bounty, perhaps grant a minor trade concession, for every agent’s head they deliver me.” Sigdrifa smiled. “I got the idea from Tiber Septim’s conquering of High Rock. It was truly a masterpiece of military, financial and political strategy.”

“Divide and conquer?”

“That’s how Talos won Tamriel. It is how we will save Skyrim.”


	4. Connections

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, human sacrifice and fantastic racism. I will need to write a couple more chapters of 'The Juniper Crown' before I get back to this. Prepare for feels.

_177 4E_

“Dammit!”

Rikke threw the report across the room. The news from the Reach was grim, matched only by the news from Eastmarch. Madanach had been formally crowned as High King of the Reach in their heathen rites, complete with the human sacrifice of Jarl Hrolfdir. Rumour painted the old Jarl as trying to negotiate when Madanach captured him. An alternative report painted the Silver-Bloods, devout Talos-worshipping landowners, as having launched an attack on another Reachfolk camp while Hrolfdir was trying to negotiate.

The news from Eastmarch was that Sigdrifa, married roughly a year ago, had just been delivered of a son that an ecstatic Ulfric had named Bjarni. The Penitus Oculatus hadn’t been able to disrupt the union; in fact, Maro had withdrawn as many agents he could because too many wound up dead at the hands of bandits. If they were bandits, Rikke was a Thalmor Justicar.

Someone knocked on the door to her office. Rikke looked at it and said, “If you have another report, I don’t want to see it until tomorrow.”

“I have a bottle of wine,” said a familiar oiled-silk tenor through the wooden barrier.

Rikke opened the door to see Irkand, standing a head shorter than her, with a bottle of Surilie Brothers’ and two silver goblets in hand. He still wore his studded brigandine, now muted brown and maroon as befitted a Knight of the Circle of Arkay, and his close-cropped hair was now peppered with silver. Two years and the traumas of the Great War had aged him beyond his thirty-something years.

“Come in,” she said with relief. “What took you so long?”

Irkand grimaced. “Someone decided that I was the reason Cloud Ruler Temple fell and so the Blade remnants were trying to kill me.”

_“What?”_

The assassin closed the door behind him. “The commander at Fort Pale Pass had been forewarned of my father’s attempted rebellion. Because I was absent and then declared Immunitas, someone came to the conclusion that I was the one who alerted him. So my former brethren have spent the past two years trying to execute me instead of going underground.”

“Irkand, I’m sorry,” Rikke said softly.

“As am I. But I do no one any good dead.” Irkand’s expression was bleak. “I’ve nearly killed as many Blades as I have Justicars.”

They sat down at the desk and Rikke poured the wine. “No one’s tried to kill me but I’m being spat on a lot by the churls,” she admitted. “Have you heard the news about Rustem and Sigdrifa?”

“Yes. He piled a cairn of Altmer heads the height of a tall man in front of Elinhir. The Dominion’s been pushed back to southern Hammerfell and the Emperor’s analysts say the Redguards might just win this one.” Irkand took a swallow of wine. “Sigdrifa has married again, correct? I never knew she and Rustem divorced.”

Rikke smiled crookedly. “They never did. But she’s whelped a son to Ulfric. Those two are planning trouble. I know it.”

“I can’t see my former sister-in-law taking the White-Gold Concordat lying down,” Irkand agreed. “But Sigdrifa is as patient as Rustem is not.”

Rikke nodded in agreement and drank some wine. “We have a necromancer or three in the Old Holds – a lot of old Dragon Cult tombs with well-preserved draugr there.”

“And a bandit problem, I hear,” Irkand said quietly.

“We’ve identified some of the ‘bandit chiefs’ as former Shieldmaidens and Legion veterans,” Rikke explained. “I think Sigdrifa’s building up an army.”

“Ah.” Irkand drank some more wine. “I will do what I can, but I make no promises.”

“I understand.” Rikke sighed and poured herself another cup. “What news from Cyrodiil?”

“Maro got married again and had a daughter that may very well become the Imperial Heir now that Decimus is dead,” Irkand said quietly. “I’ve already been approached to train her as a fighter. The Thalmor will try again, you know. They call the Great War ‘the First War’.”

“We’ve always known that.” Rikke drained her goblet dry and put it on the table. “Why can’t everyone just shut up and keep their heads low until we’re prepared?”

“Because very few think of the greater picture,” Irkand said grimly. “Me and thee are cursed to be two of the few.”

Rikke wasn’t sure what led her to kiss Irkand. Maybe it was the similar position they were in, derided as traitors by their former ilk as they fought to preserve the Empire. Maybe it was because her vows didn’t seem to matter in the course of things. Maybe they were just lonely.

When they awoke and parted the next day, nothing was ever the same again.

…

Bjarni was six months old when Sigdrifa fell pregnant again. Unlike the pregnancy with Callaina, these two were easier on her body, perhaps because she could get out and walk around in the brisk breeze without some Colovian squawking about risking the baby. Talos knew her first son was healthy and hearty.

Now that she’d secured the heir and was bearing the spare, she could turn her attention to building up Ulfric’s militia. It was almost certain they would be called upon by the new Jarl Igmund, the spotty-faced adolescent son of the recently murdered Jarl Hrolfdir, and emissaries of the Silver-Blood family were already funnelling silver to them through intermediaries. They brought news and it was enough to concern any half-loyal child of Skyrim.

Madanach was reportedly reaching out to the Empire to have the Reach recognised as an independent kingdom in return for becoming a province. He now controlled the silver of Cidhna and the gold of Kolskeggr. His heathen shamans were going from village to village, erecting their Daedric altars and sacrificing Nord landowners on them, much to the delight of the local native population. There were even disgruntled Nords – or those raised among the barbarians, like Sigdrifa’s own mother – assisting them. The Reach had been something of a sacred land to the Talosites for it was where their god’s grand destiny had been revealed. Now it was reverting to paganism.

She was feeding Bjarni goat’s milk when Ulfric brought young Igmund into their private quarters. The midwife of Hoag’s household had warned her cow’s milk was bad for the babes, leaving them starved and sickly, but goat was easier for them to digest. Sigdrifa was the first to admit that despite three pregnancies, she knew little about childbirth, and so she deferred to the midwife. It certainly explained some of Callaina’s health problems though.

Some mothers fed their babes until a year or so old, but Sigdrifa didn’t have that luxury. The Reach campaign would need her, Ulfric and Galmar present, and one didn’t bring a babe to battle. So it would be a year or so before they could begin. Maybe she’d delegate this babe to a wet nurse.

“Igmund,” she said as she burped Bjarni.

“Sigdrifa,” was the youth’s curt response. “Ulfric tells me we need to wait another year.”

“I’m pregnant,” she told him bluntly. “I will need to be on the ground when we retake the Reach and bringing a big belly or a babe along isn’t a good idea.”

“A year?” Igmund asked incredulously.

“Yes. I fell pregnant about a month ago. It takes nine months to have a child and then three or four months of rest.” Sigdrifa smiled crookedly. “_You_ try pushing something the size of a small cabbage out of something the size of a couple septims.”

Igmund blanched and she snickered inwardly. Many men were nauseated by the processes of childbirth and she wasn’t above using that as a weapon.

“The Silver-Bloods are already preparing the way,” Ulfric assured the young Jarl. “Thongvor lost his father and brother, remember? Only he and Thonar remain.”

Well, there was their uncle Esbern up at the College of Winterhold, but the old man saw himself as a Blade first and a Silver-Blood second. Sigdrifa wondered if he’d gotten over his obsession with dragonlore yet. Probably not.

“The Reachfolk have the advantage of local support, knowledge of the terrain and greater access to sorcerous weapons than we do,” Sigdrifa continued patiently. “Madanach fights dirty and most of the Hagravens are equal to a decent battlemage. That’s why we’re recruiting survivors of the Great War – they’re used to facing mages.”

Igmund lifted his chin. “You’re letting him become entrenched!”

“He’s settled in Markarth and brought many Reachfolk inside,” Ulfric said quietly. “Those copper gates are not immune to the Thu’um and our hedge mages are producing lots of Blizzard and Lightning Storm scrolls. Walls can trap as well as protect.”

“Oh.” Igmund’s voice was subdued. “I just thought you were sitting around.”

“A woman’s brains don’t diminish because she’s having a child,” Sigdrifa observed sardonically.

The boy flushed. “I shouldn’t have been Jarl for ten or twenty years, you know, and my mother died young.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. She wasn’t but this brat would be the deciding vote when it came for the Moot to reject the White-Gold Concordat.

She finished burping Bjarni and put him back in the cradle as Ulfric changed the subject. For a moment, Bjarni’s fist curled around her finger and she imagined a world where he’d have to bow his head to the elven yoke.

Her resolve hardened. It would not happen.


	5. After Markarth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and mentions of genocide, imprisonment and torture. I can’t write the Markarth Incident from Sigdrifa’s POV, I’m sorry.

It was a sadly reduced and battered force that returned to Windhelm.

Sigdrifa caught Galmar looking over his shoulder and suppressed a sigh. Igmund had betrayed them to the Thalmor and in the chaos of escape, Ulfric had been captured and sent to Haafingar for trial. Istlod knew better than to kill him if he wanted to keep the Old Holds, but it would be a long time before Ulfric saw Eastmarch again.

“He’ll return,” she reassured the huscarl.

“I know. But he was in chains before. This might break him,” Galmar told her unhappily.

“It won’t. I have ways of contacting people in Solitude. Istlod won’t dare slay him and this…” She allowed herself a sigh. “This will only boost our cause, Galmar.”

“Damn them and damn us for being fools,” he growled.

She could agree on that. They’d acted too hastily and now others were paying the price.

When they entered the Palace of the Kings, the new Steward Jorleif reported that Hoag had taken to bed from the shock of it. Sigdrifa nodded curtly to the man, handed her sword and gauntlets to a servant, and went straight to the nursery where her sons were.

Bjarni was playing with wooden blocks, building a wall with his tongue stuck out in concentration, and Egil was trying to hit himself in the eye with a fist. The wet nurse was folding clean cloths in the corner, too busy to notice Sigdrifa immediately.

Ulfric was in the hands of Istlod and soon enough, if the rumours from the west were accurate, the Imperials would come to ‘foster’ one or both of her sons as a hostage. Hoag was too weak to stop them. That meant Sigdrifa would have to take control of the situation herself.

Markarth had failed because she hadn’t truly been in control. They’d been following the advice of the Silver-Bloods, which ultimately led to disaster. Never again would anyone, not even Ulfric, control the decisions she made from here on in.

Sigdrifa left the nursery and returned to the Great Hall. “I need lists of casualties, supplies lost and costs incurred,” she told Jorleif harshly. “The Silver-Bloods cost us a great deal. I will make sure they pay appropriate wergild.”

He nodded. “Of course, Lady Sigdrifa.”

Good. One high officer of Hoag’s court accepted her authority. It would be a firm beginning.

…

“Ulfric, you knew this wasn’t going to work. Why did you do it?”

Rikke handed the imprisoned warrior a small cup of mead as she asked the question. It had taken some tricky politicking and a leaning on several members of Istlod’s court, but she’d gotten Ulfric imprisoned in Castle Dour for the lesser crime of raising an illegal militia instead of the treason that the military governor, one Gracchus, had been aiming for. It wasn’t perfect – but it kept Ulfric out of Thalmor hands and off the cross.

“I had to try,” Ulfric said with a grimace, accepting the mead. “How can you deny Talos, Rikke?”

She glanced away. “I’m trying to keep Skyrim alive, Ulfric. You know the Dominion will try again in a generation or two.”

“Is sacrificing your god worth it?”

“I’m a Shieldmaiden, Ulfric. We’re allowed to make these decisions.” But was she still one after starting a relationship with Irkand?

The son of Windhelm’s Jarl drank some mead and then chuckled. “You and Sigdrifa are two sides of the same coin.”

“We’re probably the last two who truly remember Yngvild,” she admitted ruefully. “I seem to recall you and Galmar being close. How did you manage to marry Sigdrifa?”

“Pragmatism. Shieldmaidens aren’t the only ones who can be such.” Ulfric managed a wry smile. “We don’t expect much from each other beyond support and friendship. It works, surprisingly enough.”

“After Rustem, I would have thought Sigdrifa would swear off marriage entirely.”

“It wasn’t Rustem’s adultery that angered her. It was the blatancy and disrespect of it.” Ulfric drank some more mead. “You should be helping us.”

“I am.” Rikke chewed her bottom lip. “I need you to swear an oath of loyalty to High King Istlod. It’s going to be the only way to keep the Legion from taking your eldest.”

“To Istlod? Does he fear I will overthrow him?” Ulfric gave his well-furnished cell a significant glance.

“Ulfric, I’m trying to help you here. Istlod’s own son and Dengeir’s nephew are already in the Imperial Court. Do you want to lose Bjarni and possibly Egil too?”

Ulfric’s jaw rippled with anger. “Very well. I will swear an oath of loyalty to High King Istlod.”

Rikke sighed in relief. “Thank you, Ulfric.”

…

Galmar read the letter that Sigdrifa’s people had smuggled out of Solitude and found himself grinning at the contents. “Ulfric hasn’t lost any of his wits in Castle Dour,” he told the Stormsword, handing her the letter.

She read it swiftly, nodding in satisfaction. “Good. I have a long plan and we’ll need Ulfric at full faculties for it to succeed.”

Where Galmar had returned from the Reach demoralised, Sigdrifa had been galvanised. She’d swiftly consolidated her power in Hoag’s court, extracted payment from the Silver-Bloods for the half-successful mission, and began to replace the old Empire-loyal nobles with appointments of her own. The old Jarl was still too sick to do much more than sign decrees and Galmar feared the suffering of Ulfric would speed Hoag back to Kyne.

“Oh?” Galmar asked when Sigdrifa fell silent.

“One step at a time. Did Jarl Gytha of Winterhold sign the White-Gold Concordat?”

Galmar shook his head. “No. She caught winter-fever and died while we were in the Reach. Her son Korir now rules.”

Sigdrifa nodded. “I have some ideas for Winterhold. It’s the poorest, most isolated Hold in Skyrim… which means it’s ignored by the Empire and in dire need of a helping hand.”

She inhaled deeply and exhaled explosively. “Are you up to taking a squad of Stormcloaks to Winterhold and clearing out the major bandit groups? If not, I can dispatch Torbjorn or someone else.”

“I can do it,” he growled. “What I can’t do is stand around and do nothing while Ulfric rots in a prison.”

“I will get him out as soon as possible,” Sigdrifa promised. “But we’re still looking at a couple years.”

Galmar reached out and squeezed her shoulder. “Don’t worry. He’ll be home soon.”

…

“Jarl Hoag died.”

Irkand was sharpening one of his ebony wazikashis when Rikke delivered the news to Gracchus, the current military governor of Skyrim. It seemed the man’s cousin had been instrumental in the downfall of both Madanach and Ulfric Stormcloak in the Reach, earning himself a commendation and a reassignment to High Rock. Maro’s Penitus Oculatus were going from strength to strength, it seemed.

“It isn’t time to release Ulfric,” Gracchus said flatly. “Personally, I’d prefer to nail him to a cross, his oath to Istlod be damned.”

Rikke closed her eyes and Irkand could almost hear her inward prayers to Talos for patience in dealing with fools. “If we do that, Skyrim will explode into rebellion. You can’t take a nation’s god and then their heroes without expecting some kind of backlash, sir.”

Gracchus shrugged. “Then we’ll give the Thalmor more leeway. There’s a minor noble in Whiterun giving us trouble. If we nail her to a cross, it might shut the natives up.”

“I’m a native, sir.” Rikke’s voice was edged with anger.

“Are you? You’re so sensible about things I forget.”

Harnbjorn, Rikke’s aide, arrived just in time before the Legate Primus’ temper was finally lost. “Governor, the High King wants to talk to you. Says it’s urgent.”

Grumbling, Gracchus finished his wine, pulled on a cloak and went into the stormy night with two guards.

“I think you just saved Gracchus from a massacre,” Irkand said wryly as he finished with his weapon.

Rikke took several deep breaths before speaking. “What’s so urgent that the High King needs to see the military governor?”

“Jarl Hoag’s death, I suppose. Istlod just realised that if Ulfric’s not released, it means Sigdrifa Stormsword’s running a Hold without adult supervision.” Harnbjorn poured himself some mead. He was one of those quiet, competent men that any good commander would appreciate.

Rikke swore under her breath. “Dammit! I thought the Cruel-Seas would have been Regent?”

“Nope. Sigdrifa’s consolidated her power and is running the Hold in all but name. She’s… well, maybe not popular, but she’s respected. Crime’s gone down, the road to Windhelm’s lined with the heads of bandits and renegades, and she’s even lending out troops to Winterhold and the Rift to quell their troubles.”

“She’s building a power base,” Irkand said softly. “Half of Skyrim already hates us for denying Talos. If she can win popular support…”

“…That’s why she married Ulfric,” Rikke said softly. “He’s got the charisma that she lacks.”

“We should kill Ulfric then,” Irkand suggested quietly.

“If we do that, we give the Stormcloaks a martyr,” Rikke said unhappily. “Can we release the proof she’s a bigamist?”

“No. It’ll look like muck slinging,” Harnbjorn said with a grimace into his mead. “For the moment, she’s got us over a barrel.”

“I will investigate the Old Holds as soon as a plausible necromancer excuse arises,” Irkand promised. “Sigdrifa is not infallible, nor is she particularly lovable. I will find something.”

“But will we be able to use it?” Rikke asked.

For that, he had no answer.


	6. Unpleasant Truths

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism, imprisonment, torture, war crimes, genocide, child abuse and child abandonment.

_4E 183_

It was five years before Istlod relented and allowed Ulfric to go back to Windhelm to be its Jarl.

He was cut loose at Valtheim Towers and sent on his way without an escort. Given the lack of exercise from his confinement, he might have been easy prey for the wolves and bears and sabre cats on the route if a young Plains Nord by name of Ralof hadn’t been going to Windhelm to join the cause. Sixteen or seventeen, he was the son of Ragnhild of Riverwood, one of the first Talosian martyrs Ulfric would honour in the shrine he’d dedicate to his victory, and already had a Thalmor kill to his name. It was why Balgruuf had exiled him. If the Jarl of Whiterun had chosen exile for an elf-slayer over execution, perhaps there was hope for him yet.

Ralof was young and cheerful, smiling and handsome… but underneath lurked a dark, grim fury that would break like a storm upon the heads of the Legion if properly directed. Ulfric would see it properly directed.

He returned to a Windhelm in crisis. After his father’s death, Sigdrifa had become Jarl-Regent and… as a ruler of a Hold, she made a great general. A rationing system had been put in place for food and firewood that greatly favoured Nords, as it should… but the amounts given to Argonians and Dunmer were so scant that he actually saw someone pulling out the frozen body of a lizard dockworker who’d been trying to fish in the icy waters of winter. There was bitterness and resentment and while Ulfric didn’t give much of a damn about lizards and greyskins, he did care that the Nords who owned the businesses reliant on their labour were suffering. Military force was only half of a Hold’s might; the rest came from trade.

He opened the doors to the Palace of the Kings with Ralof at his heels, half-expecting to see everything on fire and Sigdrifa saying it was fine. Instead he found Galmar sitting with two dark-haired lads at the high table, showing them his axe and growling about how many elves it had killed. With a shock, he realised the boys were his sons Bjarni and Egil.

“Ulfric!” Galmar laid his axe on the table and was about to rise when one of the boys reached for it. “Bjarni, no!”

“But I wanta kill evil Thalmor!” Bjarni grumbled as he withdrew his hand.

“You need a few years yet,” Ulfric said gruffly.

He staggered as Galmar embraced him, held him at arm’s length, and then embraced him again. “We thought you lost,” the huscarl said, tears in his eyes.

Ulfric blinked back tears of his own. “There was a time or two I thought me lost too. Istlod only allowed me to go free because… Windhelm needed a steady grip on the tiller once again.”

Galmar nodded grimly. “Aye.”

Bjarni was looking up at him with Sigdrifa’s blue-green eyes, only a paler aqua with odd brown flecks like a rock warbler’s egg. Egil held back a little, his eyes are a darker blue-green like the algae in the hot pools of the Aalto’s volcanic tundra. Ulfric had never considered there were so many shades of blue-green in the world until he looked into his sons’ eyes.

But otherwise, the boys were hale and healthy, Bjarni leaning towards the bulk of the Eastmarch Jarls while Egil favouring the more athletic lines of the Kreathling Jarls.

“Who that?” Egil finally asked, pointing at Ralof.

“A new friend.” Ulfric motioned Ralof forth with a wave, placing an approving hand on his shoulder. “This is Ralof of Riverwood and he’s already killed a Thalmor.”

“Was he screaming?” Bjarni asked ghoulishly.

Ralof chuckled. “Yeah, something about the White-Gold Concordat. The Emperor’s false treaty didn’t save him from my warhammer.”

Galmar laughed evilly. “I like you, lad.”

Ulfric knelt to look his sons in the eye. “I’m sorry I was gone for so long. I… didn’t have a choice.”

“The boys know, as much as we could explain it to them,” Galmar said in a low voice.

Bjarni scrunched up his nose thoughtfully. “If we wanta be free and the Reach wanta be free, why aren’t we friends and fight the Empire?”

Ulfric sighed. He missed the innocence of youth. “Because the Forsworn hate Talos, lad, and they hate the Nords who worship Him. Madanach was trying to _join_ the Empire by the end, just so he could keep on killing Nords.”

Egil sighed. “Everyone hates everyone else.”

He’d obviously inherited some of Sigdrifa’s cynicism, Ulfric noted ruefully to himself.

“Come, let us raid Silfnar’s kitchen and feast!” Galmar said heartily.

Bjarni whooped and ran towards the kitchen, Egil on his heels. Ulfric gestured at Ralof to join them as he and Galmar followed the boys.

Fifteen minutes later, they returned to the kitchen with the plunder from their raid, cheese and bread, mead and meat, fruit and grilled leeks. Ulfric watched Ralof with the boys and came to a decision he’d been considering since he’d met the youth on the road to Windhelm.

“Do you think he’d make a good arms master for the boys?” he murmured to Galmar as Ralof re-enacted the story of Ysgramor with wedges of cheese and pickles, Bjarni and Egil listening to him with wide eyes.

“Aye,” Galmar agreed softly. “He’s not quite ready to use as an agent yet but as he learns, the boys can learn. Sigdrifa’s trying to train them as Shieldmaidens and… well… I don’t think I’m sorry Yngvild fell if that’s how she was trained. I’ve been able to block her by having Jorleif distract her with administrative matters but…”

“She is a great general,” Ulfric said with a heavy heart, “But a poor leader.”

“Agreed,” Galmar said reluctantly. “She needs limits on her power. I’m sorry I didn’t do more.”

Ulfric wrapped an arm around his consort’s shoulder. “You did what you could. But I am home now and things will be different.”

…

“What, precisely, am I doing at Arcane University?” Rikke demanded of Harnbjorn as they walked through the corridors of Cyrodiil’s highest magical training facility. Around her, people scurried about in the blue and green Nibenese robes favoured by the Synod, most of them Cyrod but with a healthy scattering of Bretons, Bosmer, Argonians and even the odd Khajiit or Dunmer. The Imperial City was the cosmopolitan heart of the Empire and it showed in the demographics.

“We might have the rope to hang Sigdrifa,” the Tribune said with a cheerful grin.

“In Arcane University?” Rikke asked sceptically.

“You’ll see.” The Tribune led her to an office with the name ‘First Adjunct Oronrel’ on its brass plaque. He knocked and the door opened of its own accord.

_Damn mages,_ the Legate Primus thought as she entered the richly appointed office. Most of the décor was Altmer, no surprise given Oronrel was of that race, but she was quite surprised by the portraits on the walls. Oronrel stood with a small, buxom Breton in blue velvet and a Reacher’s facial tattoos in one painting; he stood with another Altmer in another, this man in the ornate robes of an Elder Councillor. There was even one with him and Martin Septim!

“I worked with Regan Mac Lanna, was cousin to Ocato of Firsthold, and studied briefly with Martin Septim,” observed the First Adjunct in a smooth baritone, his voice unusually deep for an Altmer, as his gaze followed hers. “I remember the Oblivion Crisis because I fought in it, Legate.”

Regan Mac Lanna had been the last Guildmaster of the Mages’ Guild before the schism left by Mannimarco’s cult divided it into the Synod, who followed Hannibal Traven’s edicts on the forbiddance of Conjuration in any form, and the College of Whispers, who actively practiced the School and even some state-sanctioned necromancy. Everyone knew Ocato had been the Potentate of Cyrodiil until his assassination by the Thalmor. Martin Septim needed no explanation, though Rikke was struck by his odd resemblance to Irkand of all people.

“I see,” Rikke said noncommittally. “What I don’t see, First Adjunct, is why I was summoned all the way from Skyrim to here.”

“Twofold, I believe. The Emperor has plans for you and Irkand as you are two of his most trusted agents. I haven’t been told why,” Oronrel said with a shrug. “I’ve always dedicated my life to magic over politics. It does give me a certain neutrality but it does affect what I know of the Elder Council’s decisions.”

He rose from his desk. “I wish to take you to the Hall of Journeys, Legate Primus. There is a portrait I need you to see.”

“I didn’t come down here for an art exhibition,” Rikke hissed to Harnbjorn as they followed the willowy silver-haired Altmer down the hall.

“Believe me, Rikke, it’s worth it,” the Tribune assured her. “We’ve caught that Stormsword bitch in a lie.”

“It is the custom of Arcane University to have portraits done of its students,” Oronrel said over his shoulder. “One of them, a graduate of the Bruma chapterhouse and a former ward of the Imperial Workhouse, is as striking a young woman as she is gifted a mage.”

They paused before a row of about twenty portraits. Most were Cyrod, naturally, but there were other races represented. Rikke noted absently that they were quite good and all of the mages depicted wore the grey-trimmed robes of the Synodic Journeymage.

“Laina South-Wind,” Oronrel said softly, pausing before a portrait at the very end. “Considered a magical prodigy across the board but focusing on the alchemy and enchanting track because she’s quite a pragmatic girl. Has had some outside training – I suspect Reach-influenced, she was known to be friendly with a herbwife named Catriona of that stock in Bruma – and could probably be raised to Evoker if we didn’t expect a two-year enrolment at the University before we did that.”

The girl in the portrait was about sixteen, with the olive-bronze skin and aquiline profile of Irkand, the square jaw and high cheekbones of a Nord, and the black hair and blue-green eyes of Sigdrifa Stormsword. Her hands were clasped together, the backs revealing blue-green feather tattoos in the Reach style, and the distinctive blue-white scar left by a stalhrim blade cut down the left side of her face.

“It has been determined that she is Aurelia Callaina, daughter of Sigdrifa Stormsword and Rustem Aurelius,” Oronrel continued calmly. “The Elder Council panicked until someone pointed out to the Emperor that after the trauma of Cloud Ruler Temple and Arius’ fruitless rebellion, you could hardly blame an eight-year-old for concealing her identity when found by a Thalmor in the ruins!”

“Sigdrifa convinced half of Skyrim she’d never wed before Ulfric,” Rikke said slowly. “By the time we found out, there was no way we could counter it without looking like we were flinging mud at the Old Holds. The political situation is tense in Skyrim.”

“So I’ve heard.” Oronrel sighed. “The Elder Council was for sending the girl to Skyrim as a replacement Jarl for Dengeir in Falkreath as Siddgeir’s a toddler but… We quashed that. We do not allow our Journeymages to be used for political purposes, not particularly when they have great potential.”

“I thought the Synod was all about politics,” Rikke pointed out.

“Yes. But our students are not pawns. Or they shouldn’t be.” Oronrel sighed again. “It has been agreed that she remain under the name of Laina South-Wind. In return, she seeks no position of political authority in or out of the Synod. Given her plans to rewrite my _Herbs of the Imperial Province_ because she finds it lacking, I don’t think it’s a burden for her.”

“I’ve read it. You’ve never been north of Skingrad,” Harnbjorn noted.

“So I’ve been told constantly,” the First Adjunct said wryly.

“When she’s graduated, can we have this portrait?” Rikke asked. “Sigdrifa’s playing a long game and I’d like to have ammunition ready for when she tries to enact it.”

“Of course. I’m suspecting you’ll be receiving it in two or three years. Laina’s truly driven and her ambitions seem to lie mostly in magic. She wants to recreate the formula for stalhrim, whatever that is.”

“Enchanted, never-melting ice that the Clever Crafters of the ancient Nords used to make weapons from,” Rikke answered automatically.

“Ah, yes, that blue sword of hers!” Oronrel chewed his lip thoughtfully. “She’s more interested in reviving ancient Nord magic. I didn’t even know Nords had a magical tradition, to be honest.”

“A lot of people forget we were the first mostly human civilisation on Tamriel,” Rikke observed blandly. “Even the Nedes were more influenced by the Ayleids.”

She clasped her hands together. “Whatever the Emperor wants from me, Oronrel, will be told by him soon enough. But this… Harnbjorn was right. You’ve given me the rope to hang Sigdrifa.”

“Good. I hear the woman’s not particularly pleasant… and Skyrim can’t stand alone when war comes along again.”

“No,” Rikke said softly. “It can’t.”


	7. False Accusations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism, imprisonment, torture, genocide and religious conflict. Read ‘Red Sands, Red Hands’ for the Hammerfell side of this event.

“I thought I’d bring the mead this time,” Astrid said with a wry quirk of her lips, holding up a few bottles tied together with string. “I know you don’t drink, but after the news I have from Hammerfell, you’ll want to.”

Sigdrifa sat down in front of the fire she’d built on the roof of the Yngvild tomb. “I know Balgeir disappeared in Hammerfell. It’s no great loss.”

Astrid joined her, pulling the flap of the tent closed. “I know how he died, and by who, and why. You’re right about it being no great loss, but he’s managed to piss off the Children of Satakal. I told you about their response to our attempt on Rustem, right?”

“You did,” Sigdrifa confirmed. She accepted a bottle of mead from Astrid. If the news was that bad-

“I, ah, assume you’ve heard the news from Cyrodiil?” Astrid asked with more tact than she’d evinced as an apprentice Shieldmaiden.

“Rikke’s been named the head of the Imperial Heir’s guard? I know. It buys us a few years to consolidate in the Old Holds,” Sigdrifa answered.

“…Yeah. That. But there’s more. My contacts in Bruma passed on the news and Rustem’s message via the Children of Satakal confirmed it.” Astrid waited until Sigdrifa had popped the cork on her bottle before delivering the hammer-blow. “Callaina… She’s alive.”

It was reflex that had Sigdrifa swallow her mead instead of spitting it out.

“Turns out she was a smart little cookie,” Astrid said with some approval. “A Thalmor agent – that detestable Ondolemar prick in Markarth no less – fished her out of the ruins of Cloud Ruler Temple. Turns out she knew Oakflesh and Telekinesis at the age of eight. Festus tells me he wasn’t much older when he learned Adept-level Destruction and he was a prodigy of the Synod by twelve. But she gave a false name – Laina South-Wind – and got dumped in the Imperial Workhouse.”

Sigdrifa downed the whole bottle, reached for the next that Astrid handed her, and drank that one too before she could find the words to speak.

“I- I knew she’d always been a mage but-but…”

“You had no reason to believe she was alive. No one did,” Astrid said quietly.

Sigdrifa wiped her eyes. She’d mourned that sickly child. “Raised by Imperials-“

“By the Workhouse. Had a fairly dramatic time of it in her Apprenticeship at the Synod. I have it on record her first teacher tried to kill her and an Evoker of the Synodic Council when his corruption was discovered.” Astrid’s tone was sympathetic. “She saved both their lives with a Lesser Ward, my source said. By the end of her Apprenticeship, she was taking on king-draugr in an old Dragon Cult tomb and walking away with a stalhrim sword.”

Sigdrifa managed a watery laugh. “She _is_ my daughter.”

“And Rustem’s,” Astrid added. “Sigdrifa… You know your father Dengeir can only be described as bug-fuck nuts, right?”

“Yes,” Sigdrifa agreed, wiping her eyes again. “The Forsworn have driven him mad.”

“He sent Balgeir to me, to arrange for her death. Partly for the fact she’s the direct heir to Falkreath, partly for the fact that she’s a mage… and partly because of the fact you’ve let half of Skyrim believe you went virgin to Ulfric’s bed,” Astrid said with a sigh. “After what the Children of Satakal did to the Hegathe Sanctuary as retaliation for the attempt on Safiya al-Elinhir’s household in the hopes of murdering Rustem, I declined them.”

“They let the world believe it had been a Dominion attack!” Sigdrifa blurted.

“Only because they were in the middle of a war at the time. Hariq was inclined to let things be with the odd reminder. His successor Jubal is more nationalistic and a great friend of Rustem’s, who just happens to be a Son of Satakal himself, the one they call the Red Hand.” Astrid drank some of her own mead. “The Children, I think, are somewhere between us, a religious order and the Morag Tong of Hammerfell. You fuck up, you are killed. Balgeir fucked up by approaching them to kill Callaina and then being his typical self in Elinhir.”

“They killed him,” Sigdrifa said after opening her third bottle of mead.

“Rustem killed him, fed him to the crocodiles, and sent me a message that if Callaina dies, you die. Nazir told me what he did to the Speaker of the Hegathe Sanctuary.” Astrid shuddered. And for Astrid to shudder, it had to be bad.

“DOES RUSTEM BELIEVE I WOULD MURDER MY OWN DAUGHTER?” Sigdrifa roared with fury.

“You haven’t exactly built yourself a reputation for mercy and sentimentality these past few years,” Astrid answered soberly. “Personally, I can see where he’d come to that conclusion.”

That deflated her rage and reluctantly, Sigdrifa had to concede Astrid was right. “I mourned Callaina,” she said softly. “But I was relieved it was over too.”

“Given it was the Synod who put two and two together and given Rikke is in Cyrodiil, you better believe the Empire knows and they’ll find a way to use it against us,” Astrid continued. “You hate Rustem and he hates you; not even a decree from the gods would change that.”

“But I can only fight a war on one front,” Sigdrifa finished with a sigh, taking another mouthful of mead.

“You need to make a truce with him. It’ll be harder to convince Safiya to agree to it – don’t let the sweet face fool you, Sigdrifa, that woman is like you but with better dress sense,” Astrid said with a wry quirk of the lips. “Hammerfell is where Skyrim needs to be, and we’re going to need the Redguards on our side when we tell the Empire to go fuck itself.”

Sigdrifa took a deep breath and released it slowly. “I need to make a truce with Rustem… and come clean about Callaina. I will take the weapon from Rikke’s hands and use it for myself.”

“You’ve got a good inbuilt story – you had no reason to believe your daughter was alive, Rustem was a lousy husband and Hoag, sadly, was an arch-conservative who wouldn’t have allowed a divorced woman, no matter her skills and connections, to marry his only son,” Astrid agreed. “Rikke’s in Cyrodiil for the next few years. Harnbjorn’s competent but he tends to be slow to react. If you seize the initiative…”

“The truth, told our way,” Sigdrifa said. “You’d have made a good Shieldmaiden, Astrid.”

“I’ll take the compliment, but if I’d been a Shieldmaiden, there’d be no Arnbjorn,” Astrid pointed out with a wicked chuckle.

Sigdrifa swallowed the last of her mead. “Any chance of Callaina being brought to Skyrim?”

“No. She’s enrolled at Arcane University under the tutelage of First Adjunct Oronrel himself. She’s apparently quite the alchemical and enchanting prodigy. They won’t let her go until she’s an Evoker and given she’s the last of the Aurelii, Mede will probably have Penitus Oculatus agents on her.”

“Gods, I wish that man would die,” Sigdrifa said fervently.

“You and half of Tamriel.”

The Stormsword inhaled and exhaled slowly. “Tell Rustem I will meet him at the border of Falkreath and Hammerfell. For the sake of our daughter, we will have a truce. Skyrim needs time. My sons need time to grow up.”

“It’ll take that long?” Astrid asked in a small voice.

“Ulfric’s oath to Istlod, remember? We need Torygg as High King before we can act.” Sigdrifa sighed again. “To be honest, we need our children to grow up and be ready for the fight. My calculations, based on what Ulfric told me is sustainable growth, are currently for about fifteen to twenty years. The children of the Great War will be resentful; the children born after that will have learned that rage from their kin.”

Ulfric’s fury on his return home had stung and so Sigdrifa ceded to him on that point. He and Jorleif handled the civilian side of things; she built up and trained their Stormcloak militia; Galmar made sure they didn’t kill each other.

“We’ll still be spry enough to fight but we’ll have the children on our side.” Astrid gave one of her rare sunny smiles. “Does that mean our business will drop?”

Sigdrifa snorted. “As I’m doing, Rikke’s dog Harnbjorn will do. I want every suspected foreign agent dead. Maro believes himself to be a spymaster; he is nothing compared to the Nords on our home ground.”

“Maro’s a peacock who favours himself an eagle,” Astrid said scornfully.

“Peacocks can kill people,” Sigdrifa said softly.

Astrid never heeded the warning until it was too late.

But for the moment, they continued to discuss the political landscape of the world they wished to build, and Sigdrifa was relieved to be in control again.


	8. Through Haemar's Pass

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism, incompatible mixed-orientation marriage, adultery, child abandonment and child death. Last chapter of 183 before time-skip. Read Chapter 6 of ‘Red Sands, Red Hands’ for the context to this chapter.

It was a long sombre ride back to Eastmarch.

There were several truths that Sigdrifa relied upon as a rock on which to fix her life and morals. One of them was that Arius Aurelius had deceived the High-Mother as to the identity of his grandfather because he wanted to rule Cyrodiil. Her father had only confirmed that belief and for nearly a decade, it had been a cornerstone truth of her world.

Rustem proved it wrong by drawing a sword.

“Don’t worry about it,” Galmar consoled as they rode along. “I’m sure Talos Himself is wondering why His bloodline is scraping the gutter with Rustem.”

Sigdrifa was surprised into a short laugh. “The gutter is a step from the sewer that is Rustem.”

“That’s the spirit,” Galmar said with a grin.

“Let the Redguards believe they have won,” Ulfric finally said as they entered Haemar’s Pass. “It costs us nothing and they keep the mind of the Emperor distracted from us.”

“You’re learning,” Sigdrifa approved.

His rare smile flashed across his face. Then he grew sombre. “What do we tell the boys?”

“The truth.” Sigdrifa sighed gustily. “We will make of it a weapon to our hand. So far as I’m concerned, any marriage contracted by the Imperials doesn’t apply under Skyrim law, and therefore my union with Rustem is invalid.”

“I like that.” Galmar rubbed his bearded chin. “Ulfric, do we have anyone we can spare for a trip to Cyrodiil? I truly don’t like the idea of Cal… Laina… running around without an eye on her. Sigdrifa, forgive me, but…”

“One or two we could spare but none who could enter Arcane University,” Ulfric said with a sigh. “She is, as the Bretons say, the wildcard.”

“The Redguards will likely have someone on her already,” Sigdrifa finally said. “Safiya is the mistress of the City of Mages – and look how she drooled at the thought of getting a great mage to join her court as a tool.”

She rubbed the back of her neck. “I’ll talk to that alchemist Nurelion. He’s always corresponding with mages from the Synod and Elinhir in search of Curalmil’s White Phial. Laina’s the sort who’d appeal to him as a potential student or colleague.”

“Can we trust an Altmer?” Galmar growled.

“A Direnni? They despise the Thalmor nigh as much as we do.”

“It’s all we can do for the moment,” Ulfric agreed. “We have Skyrim and our sons to consider. Laina has been on her own for eight years. She must take care of herself for several more.”

“I’ll have my people in Bruma give me as much as they can,” Galmar growled. “If nothing else, we can dispatch Ralof in a few years. He’s young, he’s handsome, he’s reasonably intelligent. If Laina’s like any of the maidens I’ve seen in Windhelm, she’ll be well-inclined to him from the start. If we can save her from the Empire…”

Sigdrifa gave him a nettled glance. “You think a daughter of mine is swayed by a pretty face and soft words?”

“Not everyone is like you, Sigdrifa,” Ulfric reminded her gently. “Though… I’m not sure Ralof would much like us making matches for him. He told me he’d sworn by Talos to not take a bride until the Empire was driven from Skyrim, for he wouldn’t put a woman he loved in danger.”

“Hmm. I’d forgotten that,” Galmar said, chagrined.

They breathed a sigh of relief as the aspen and birch forests of the Rift came into view. This wasn’t quite safe territory but it was safer territory than Falkreath had been.

“Speaking of children, in a year or two ours must be fostered,” Ulfric said as they rode along.

“Fostered?” Sigdrifa asked in disbelief. “What could others teach them that we can’t?”

“Connections. New ways of looking things.” Ulfric bit his lip, looking into the distance. “I want to send Bjarni to the Grey-Manes in Whiterun. He can train with the Companions and learn something of discipline with them. I love the boy but he’s a little too wild for Laila’s court. He’d fall in with a bad crowd soon enough.”

“Plays too much with greyskins and lizards,” Galmar growled. “Empathy for others is one thing, but to ignore Nord lads of good character to play with gutter trash and dock brats is another.”

Sigdrifa conceded with a nod and a sigh. “You’re right. The Grey-Manes and I don’t always see eye to eye, but Thorald and Avulstein would be better influences than the Grey Quarter brats.”

“As for Egil…” Ulfric pursed his lips. “He is very concerned with what is right and wrong. In another time, I might have sent him to the Greybeards, but I will need both my sons with me.”

“So it will be the Vigilance then?” Sigdrifa asked. “They’re… very loyal to the Empire.”

“Only as a force of stability.” Ulfric sighed. “Skald has not the temperament to foster a child. Korir is barely more than a boy himself. Laila would throw Egil out in about five minutes after he arrived.”

That… was a point.

“How long for?” Sigdrifa asked.

“Five years. Seven or eight to twelve or thirteen is the customary age.” Ulfric drank some water. “The next few years are critical for us, Sigdrifa. Rikke is in Cyrodiil and only Arkay knows where Irkand is. The Redguards have their own concerns. Istlod will be watching us like hawks… and if the worst goes to worst, our boys will be safe in our fall.”

“You’re right,” she reluctantly agreed. “I think it’s high time I started training our military officers.”

“Yes.” Ulfric looked into the distance. “We will be victorious. We must be for Skyrim’s sake.”

Sigdrifa let him fall into silence as she began to consider her own plans. Fifteen, twenty years until they would likely be ready. She only wished she had more.


	9. The Next Generation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, fantastic racism, violence, religious conflict and corpse desecration. Teenage Ria, Bjarni and Egil ahoy!

_4E 192_

The Cyrod girl was lithe and fast for her age, dancing across the poles with the lightness of a feather on snow, striking each of the targets cleanly with the thrown hand-sacks of sand. In battle, if she followed that dance with fire or lead shot, she could break up a line of defenders in a minute or less. Like the knife-dances of the Akaviri that Irkand taught her, the Shieldmaiden exercises Rikke had adapted for her served a purpose, even if it still seemed like play at times.

She leapt off the last pole and rolled, coming to her feet with knives leaving their sheaths smoothly. The girl flung the weapons at the two straw targets, rolled again under the swinging clubs held by mannequins moved by a pressure plate, blocked another with a steel-studded bracer and thrust the shortsword drawn from her waist-sheath into the heart of the final target with a shout. She kept her hand on the weapon until a curt command bade her release it, then wiped sweaty dark hair back from a sweet round face, awaiting evaluation.

It wasn’t long in coming. Her grandfather, a severe Colovian man in ornate robes, gave a single nod of satisfaction. “You have learned everything Irkand and Rikke have taught you, Akaviria,” Titus Mede II, Emperor of Tamriel, said with only a thread of praise colouring his gruff tones. “Well done.”

Akaviria – Ria for short – was child enough to pump her fist in victory and Mede unbent a little more by smiling fondly. “You have honed your body, granddaughter. Now it is time to hone your mind. But today, you may spend the time until dinner as you wish.”

“Thank you, lord grandfather.” Ria gave a warrior’s salute, collected her weapons, and exited the field. Rikke supposed she’d be in the library or badgering Skyrim’s ambassador for stories about the Companions of Jorrvaskr. Perhaps, even for a year or two, she could train with them.

Titus watched her leave with a pensive expression. “Have I done the right thing by raising her to think of war and weapons instead of toys?”

“You could have made of her another Siddgeir. That boy will be worse than useless as a Jarl, he’s been so spoiled and bought by the Dominion,” Rikke said quietly.

“But he will be a vote for the Empire in the Moot. I had thought the Aurelii a greater threat, but I should have realised the true vipers in my bosom were the Jarl of Falkreath and his daughter.” Mede sighed and shook his head.

“That’s why I need to return to Skyrim,” Rikke pointed out. “Sigdrifa’s had about eight years to plot and plan without me watching her.”

“Indeed.” Mede’s smile was a little wintry. “Pity the Children of Satakal didn’t press the issue and deal with her.”

“Rustem would sooner make peace with the Stormsword than do anything which strengthens the Empire,” Irkand said gravely. “In fact, given the lack of activity, I wouldn’t be surprised if they had.”

“His son and the Stormsword’s sons will be the bane of my Ria,” Mede said sadly. “Tell me again why we can’t just execute Ulfric and Sigdrifa, Rikke?”

“Because it will send the Old Holds up in flame. We couldn’t even hire the Brotherhood to do it because Astrid, their last Speaker, is best friends with Sigdrifa.” Rikke echoed the Emperor’s earlier sigh. “I might have one of her sons fostered to the High King’s court. Ulfric’s oath to Istlod would compel him to obey.”

“Bjarni,” Irkand said immediately. “Somehow, he’s grown up with a modicum of intelligence, empathy and tolerance for non-Nords.”

“We might be able to salvage one? When one is climbing a cliff, you use any handhold you can.” Mede tucked his hands inside the wide sleeves of his robe. “Do it, Rikke. If we can drum some sense into one of Ulfric’s sons, I’ll take whatever good comes of it.”

“It will be.” Rikke chewed her lip. “Honestly, it might be an idea to send Torygg home for a while. He needs to learn the arts of a Nord warrior, kill his ice wraith and that sort of thing.”

“I need him here for a year or two more. Duke Caradoc of Evermore sent his daughter Elisif here – you know, the one born to the second Nord wife – and I’d like it if she makes a match with Torygg. Akatosh knows Haafingar could use a little High Rock sophistication.”

Rikke suppressed the reflexive sense of insult at Mede’s words. Cyrodiil and High Rock were considered the pinnacle of human civilisation; Hammerfell and Skyrim were not, no matter how ancient and complex their societies were.

“That would be no bad idea.” Rikke pursed her lips. “I don’t suppose you’d consider Balgruuf as Istlod’s successor? He’d easily reign for a decade or two and give Torygg enough time to grow into his crown.”

“If I didn’t have the Stormsword and her overloud spouse in Skyrim’s east, I would consider it,” Mede answered with a sigh. “But no. We need a High King who will obey the Empire more than we need a shrewd diplomat and businessman. I’m sorry, Rikke.”

“I wish I could do more,” Irkand said helplessly. “But Sigdrifa’s too shrewd not to prepare for an assassin.”

“After you nearly died last year at the hands of that wretched necromancer in Underpall Cavern, I’d prefer to keep you close to home,” Mede told him frankly. “I know several people are shopping around for an assassin to kill me, Irkand. I’d like to keep the best one in the Empire by my side.”

Irkand bowed. “As you wish.”

“Speaking of the best in the Empire, have you heard anything of Laina?” Rikke asked carefully. Sigdrifa’s daughter was… well, she’d never shown any kind of disloyalty. The conscription of all Imperial wards into the Legion had swept her up into the Bruma Fourth and turned her loose on the pirates attacking the Gold Coast. “Her term would be coming to an end, correct?”

“It ended last year,” Mede said with tightened lips, a flash of fear in his old eyes. “The Synod persuaded the Elder Council that mages should only serve four years instead of six.”

“Where is she now?” Irkand asked quietly.

“Bruma.” Mede sighed heavily yet again. “I… can’t blame the child for keeping her identity to herself for so long. But I cannot allow her to roam freely across Tamriel where either of her parents could pick her up for their own plans. If we’d had the proper raising of her, things might be different, but until Rustem and Sigdrifa are put down, the hawk must be confined in a cage. I’m sorry, Irkand.”

“I understand and I have tried to explain it to her. She’s no love of her family, to say the last,” Irkand agreed with a sigh of his own.

“I’ll try to do something about Sigdrifa,” Rikke promised. “She’s blighted too many lives for far too long.”

But could the ever-prepared Sigdrifa ever be outflanked? Rikke wasn’t sure anymore.

…

“Rikke’s back and the first thing she’ll ask for is one of our sons to be fostered at Istlod’s court.”

Ulfric allowed himself a sour laugh. “The Empire is ever predictable, isn’t it?”

Sigdrifa shrugged as she sat down by the hearth in their shared common room. It was hard to believe that Ulfric had been married for fifteen years with two strapping sons in early adolescence, a wife with whom he shared a reasonably good relationship, and a consort who gave him the love his soul craved. “They’ll want Bjarni because he’s more to their tastes. I’d prefer to send Egil, because he’s less easily swayed.”

“Bjarni isn’t easily swayed, Stormsword. He just believes the best of everyone,” Galmar told her gruffly. “It doesn’t occur to him that most races don’t have the kind of honour we Nords do.”

“Whereas Egil treats everyone equally yet understands not all people are good,” Ulfric agreed. “I hate to send the lad off just after his return from the Hall of the Vigilant but… if we anticipate Istlod’s order, it will unsettle him.”

“We should take both of them ice wraith hunting before the order comes,” Galmar added. “I know fourteen and thirteen are a little young for it, but if worst comes to worst, they’ll be counted as men in the Moot.”

“That could get them killed!” Sigdrifa protested.

“_Life_ can get us killed, Sigdrifa.” Ulfric paused and then nodded decisively. “Have Ralof take them out to Refugee’s Rest tomorrow. There’s rumours of ice wraiths out there.”

Sigdrifa shook her head. “I think it’s a ridiculous custom.”

“It’s a good test of how true a Nord’s blood is, Sigdrifa. You should be glad that Rikke never thought to make an issue of your lack of ice wraith scars, because in some of the more traditional circles, you shouldn’t be speaking at the Moot,” Galmar pointed out.

“I still think it’s ridiculous. If either or both of my sons die, Ralof’s head will be piked at the gate.”

“Given he loves those boys as family, I don’t think he’d stop you,” Ulfric said softly.

Ralof’s head wasn’t piked at the gate and both Bjarni and Egil returned from their ice wraith hunts with blue-silver scars, ice wraith fangs hung from leather around their necks, and a thick pelt from a snowy sabre cat. Ulfric threw a feast, as was appropriate, and made the announcement that Egil would represent Windhelm at the High King’s court for the next couple years. Let Istlod and the Empire choke on him anticipating them.

Both his boys were accomplished warriors, Bjarni with a one-handed axe and Destruction magic, Egil with the Vigilants’ traditional mace and Restoration magic. Some of the older Thanes muttered about Nords using magic until Ulfric pointed out Sigdrifa’s own use of Lightning Cloak and the strictest definition of the Thu’um that he himself used. Then they were all for it.

Bjarni was boisterous and bold as a Nord should be but… he treated everyone, no matter their race and rank, as equals. If he became Jarl, he’d be the sort to throw open the doors of the Palace of the Kings and feast anyone and everyone at the hearth. Oh, he loathed the Thalmor with a cold disgust that relieved Ulfric. Yet it was more for the fact they were tyrants than they were elves. None could doubt his courage or intelligence though. His time with the Companions had been spent well.

Egil was very much Sigdrifa’s son, tempered by mercy and compassion that she admittedly lacked. He was more discerning and severe than Bjarni, the kind of Jarl who would judge fairly and equally but not be beloved. Ulfric feared his rigidity could drive away potential allies or lose wars because there were things he would not condone, even when it was best for the Hold. The luxuries of Istlod’s court wouldn’t seduce him, for the Vigilants had made of him a warrior almost as ascetic as Sigdrifa, and he knew well the atrocities of the Thalmor.

They weren’t quite of an age to rule yet, not for five or so years, but Ulfric knew that if he fell in the fight to come – Eastmarch was in good hands.

He steepled his fingers and leaned back in the Throne of Ysgramor. It was time to begin the endgame. Portents indicated that Torygg would come to the High King’s throne in ten or so years. His sons would be full men then, quite possibly heroes in their own right. If the rumours in Cyrodiil were true, the Empire could suffer another mighty blow soon. Resentment towards the goldskins grew.

Ulfric allowed himself a bleak smile. Even if he should not see it, Skyrim would be free.


	10. The Last of Yngvild

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and mentions of imprisonment, torture, religious conflict and war crimes. Final chapter in this one too! The Summer King and The Caged Hawk will round out the prequels before I get into the ‘canon’ storylines.

_4E 197_

Rikke stared at Sigdrifa across the audience chamber of the Blue Palace. It had been the first time in several years they’d been in each other’s presence and the Legate Primus was struck by how much they’d aged. Yngvild felt only a decade ago and the Great War only a few years, but here they were, lines on their faces, silver in their hair. Twenty-two years. It felt like yesterday.

Beside her, Irkand stirred restlessly. After the fall of the Children of Satakal in Elinhir, he’d been reassigned here as there were rumours of increased necromantic activity, and the Stormcloaks were building a reputation as hunters of the undead in the Old Holds. Istlod had thrown Egil against any kind of danger he could find in what Rikke suspected was a clumsy attempt at removing one of Ulfric’s sons but had honed the young warrior into a powerful enemy of the undead who openly wielded and wore Dawnbreaker. Even Nords in the Imperial Holds were talking approvingly of Egil and his crusade. Torygg considered him a friend.

“Damn you,” Rikke said softly in Sigdrifa’s direction. “You will burn down Skyrim for your ambition.”

For a moment, when the Stormsword bestowed upon her a glacial blue-green glare, Rikke wondered if she’d heard. But Sigdrifa was bestowing that gaze on everyone as she hated Solitude and everyone in it. The feeling was wholeheartedly mutual.

Kodlak, Harbinger of the Companions, closed the Moot as was his duty. The Jarls and their retinues immediately broke up into chattering knots. Rikke begged off from attending the Imperial military governor Stilicho and left the Blue Palace, citing duties at Castle Dour. Honestly, what she needed was an evening of mead and boring paperwork to wash the taste of politics than from her mouth.

It was quiet in the administrative quarters of Castle Dour, which was odd because Harnbjorn was supposed to be drawing up a list of Legates for covert camps in the Old Holds. His son Hadvar had just returned from a posting in the Bruma Fourth and the Tribune was making noises about retiring to Riverwood to help his brother Alvor with the forge.

When Rikke entered her office, she realised Harnbjorn would never retire. His throat had been neatly cut and a bloody handprint left on the list of Legates. She could only read the name Fasendil, an Altmer familiar with the tricks of the Thalmor. It was no surprise he was first on the list, given Elenwen’s priming of Ulfric during the Great War.

By the time Rikke had stormed out of Castle Dour and gotten down to the street leading to the gate, Sigdrifa was walking by with Galmar Stone-Fist. A sign from Talos, she thought dimly as she roared the Battle-Cry and launched herself at the Stormsword with bare hands.

Both women wore heavy armour and while Sigdrifa’s afforded more protection, Rikke’s was lighter and allowed more movement. They fought as only two women of Yngvild could, using every dirty trick in the book from pulling hair to trying to gouge out an eye. Sigdrifa got a broken nose and Rikke was bleeding from her forehead by the time Galmar and Aldis pulled them apart.

“What has gotten into you, Legate?” the Captain asked in a low urgent voice.

“Sigdrifa’s pet assassin cut Harnbjorn’s throat,” Rikke said, spitting out blood.

“Can you prove it?” Galmar growled.

“Everyone knows that Astrid is Sigdrifa’s best friend!” Rikke spat.

“But you can’t prove a thing,” Sigdrifa said, Galmar helping her to her feet. “Breaking the Moot truce, Rikke. That’s not particularly honourable of you.”

“Neither is taunting Rikke about Harnbjorn,” Galmar said, pulling her back. “I’m sorry, Rikke. I heard he was a good man.”

“How can you speak of honour when your Jarl’s wife is using assassins?” Rikke demanded of the huscarl.

“The honour of a Shieldmaiden isn’t that of a huscarl.” But Galmar looked uncomfortable.

“We’ll forget this if you do,” Aldis offered tentatively.

“Like hell we will,” Sigdrifa said but Galmar was nodding.

“We will.” He pulled Sigdrifa away.

By the time they were in the Winking Skeever, Irkand had arrived. “Damn her,” he snarled. “Damn her!”

“Don’t,” Rikke said weakly. “If she dies during the Moot truce, the Stormcloaks will have justification to… to…”

“I’ve heard rumours of a powerful necromancer in Eastmarch,” Irkand said softly. “But I think I might stop by Windhelm on the way.”

“She knows you’ll come,” Rikke reminded him. “You’re the only one who can stop the Brotherhood, remember?”

“Damn her!” Irkand screamed.

“We’ll get her,” Aldis promised. “We’ll get them all. Even the Stormsword must make a wrong move.”

Rikke stared balefully at the Winking Skeever. “Your time will come,” she vowed softly. “Your time will come.”

…

“I must confess, I wasn’t expecting this kind of reception.”

Sigdrifa gestured to seats for the middle-aged Nibenese Cyrod and the slightly older Redguard woman. This private meeting room in the Palace of the Kings was rarely used as Ulfric preferred the Great Hall for his business, but it was perfect for her purposes. No one would think twice if she should meet a pair of prosperous foreigners here.

“I apologise for the background noise,” she said in response to Lu’ah al-Skaven’s comment. “But as much as I love my husband and sons, they are very stubborn about such matters, in particular Egil. What they don’t know can’t hurt them.”

“It’s refreshing to meet such pragmatism from anyone, let alone a Nord,” Calixto Corrium said quietly. “I can handle a few drunken Nords so long as I don’t have to share the mead with them.”

Sigdrifa sat down across from them. “Things move apace and the Empire begins to stir. The Old Holds are mighty and while we have a lot of loyal Nords in the other Holds, we are still outnumbered by the Emperor’s Legions. That, sir and madam, are why you are here.”

“I want Anvilsund,” Lu’ah said immediately. “My husband and I can lead the dead in the forms of Fjori and Holgeir.”

“Do as you wish. They feast in Sovngarde or are reborn several times over. But those armies will march against the Empire before we throw them at the Dominion,” Sigdrifa agreed, her tone firm.

“I see why Lu’ah’s here,” Calixto noted, bowing slightly to the other necromancer, “But not myself.”

“Yngvild, home of the Shieldmaidens, is full of unhappy ghosts and the preserved bodies of my sisters,” Sigdrifa said softly. “You have my leave to perfect your study of liches in Windhelm so long as you stick to those who will not be missed nor mourned. Lu’ah’s army will have Shieldmaiden officers, each bent on avenging themselves on those who betrayed them.”

“I can live with that,” Lu’ah agreed. “But to be honest, even my husband wasn’t much of a strategist.”

Sigdrifa smiled wryly. “I am. Both of you have until the death of Istlod to perfect your arts. We await on the High King’s death and to see what manner of man Torygg is.”

“Not much, I’ve heard,” Calixto noted.

“I agree but Egil thinks he might be swayed to our cause. I’m enough of a mother to try and give my son the chance.” Sigdrifa shrugged. “In that case, your armies will be unleashed directly on Cyrodiil. I want the rotten heart of empire plucked out before we march on the Dominion.”

Calixto rubbed his hands. “I have College of Whispers friends who wouldn’t weep if the Synod should fall.”

“There is one Synodic mage who is off limits,” Sigdrifa warned. “Laina South-Wind.”

The Niben-man frowned. “She’s the one who drove me from County Bruma.”

“She’s my daughter.” Sigdrifa held the necromancer’s gaze until he looked away.

“That explains her formidable competence then,” he said after a moment. “I won’t target her, but if she meddles, I can’t promise my liches won’t deal with her.”

“That… is understandable,” Sigdrifa conceded. “If she fights for the Empire, she will have chosen her fate.”

When they were gone, Sigdrifa leaned back and allowed herself a moment of peaceful solitude. Her nose still hurt from Rikke’s blows and she reminded herself to tell Astrid to be a little more _discreet_ next time.

“I have been holding back out of respect for you,” she said aloud to the spectre of her fellow Shieldmaiden. “But now, with the storm rising, you will discover who it is who learned the High-Mother’s lessons best.”

She rose to her feet and left the chamber. It was time to rejoin her family at the feast.


End file.
